hundred dresses project

April 14, 2015

Dear reader, the other day it occurred to me Tollipop was approaching its anniversary mark, a thought which has eluded me all the previous years unless someone supplied me with a reminder.

I checked to make sure and didn't know whether to be encouraged or depressed by how accurately the first post continues to describe my life skills. On the one hand, at least I was authentic. On the other...my poor plants.

As I think on it, I would say I have changed a little. I'm not quite as scatterbrained, not quite as distracted. Perhaps it's due to my present stage in life, no longer running as crazy with little ones...who knows...but in a way I fear my mind will always wander, it will always be somewhere else.

Perhaps that's true for everyone? Does it demand an undue amount of effort to keep your head in the game, dear reader? I often wonder about this.

I will resist an attempt to comment on the patterns and themes which have emerged here over the years, or an attempt to say anything profound about this endeavor, after all. It's a busy day and I must run. But I wanted to thank you for coming to this place, for reading, for leaving comments. I know I mentioned if you rely on the support of others to encourage your creative efforts, you could be left feeling sadly discouraged...but the other half of that truth is how much nicer it is, how powerfully affecting such support can be.

I have felt it here and it has touched me deeply.

I thought I would offer this little girl and her imaginary friend as a giveaway. You can see, by way of scale, she is ten times the size of a car or a dinosaur. To enter, simply leave a comment below.

I hope you have a wonderful day. xo

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p.s. The winner of the giveaway is Christine! Congratulations, darling! I'll be in touch soon to exchange mailing information, etc.

Thank you to everyone for visiting Tollipop and for your kind and lovely comments. You make this feel like a warm place in the sun.

April 07, 2015

The other day I was asked to share my thoughts on using watercolors. By one person. Which, as we all know, is a hefty slice of the readership here at Tollipop.

As much as I'd love to say something brilliant, any advice which comes to mind makes me cringe, as it's either painfully self evident or likely bad information.

Actually, here's a little gem I discovered the hard way: when painting backgrounds, start with the farthest back layer and work your way forward. Otherwise, you'll find yourself realizing the tree that's supposed to be behind the vine is not, and now you want to break your emergency swear vial!

Other than that, what do I know about watercolors? Pretty much nothing.

I do know this: I've peered in on the world of visual art my entire life. I've pressed my face against its glass until my breathing clouded the view and still I've stood there, watching in wonder and awe. I've loved my Prismacolor pencil crayons, a gift I received for my 16th birthday, which tells you something about the kind of 16 year old I was (the kind who didn't get asked to prom). I hoarded those pencils, gazing upon them in a hushed ardor reserved for rare, religious antiquities. Throughout my childhood I was kept busy doing other things, so drawing was a secret and soothing outlet I sought in quiet moments, often late at night when I had time to myself.

What did I draw? This girl. Or variations of her, over and over again. But I never dreamed I had artistic talent, or that I was even allowed to broach the sleek, marbled halls of such a pursuit. I have some ideas as to why I thought this way (without even realizing it) but regardless, it wasn't until one summer break as a college student that I purchased a small palette of watercolors and felt terribly bold in so doing.

This is the point I want to discuss: why did it take me so long to pursue an interest which had beckoned to me all the years of my life? Why did I feel I needed some official sanction to buy those watercolors and brush them across a piece of paper?

Why do I still feel hesitant, as if I'm trespassing upon a world only certain people may inhabit?

The thing is, dear reader, if you're waiting for some external nudge, some grant of permission to embark upon exploring an interest...you might be waiting a long time. If you need people to believe in you or encourage your pursuit, you might be deeply disappointed. If you make an initial attempt to pursue your interests, then allow the realization you can't paint a background convince you of your unworthiness to continue...well, the very thought makes me want to break another emergency swear vial!

My husband has an uncle who is very dear to me, who reminded me all art is of value when it comes from the heart. He sent me a quote...I can't recall it at the moment...but it expresses the idea each person to walk this earth is an individual, endowed with creative expressions unique to his or her soul. If you don't develop what is within you, no one else can, and the world will be more or less enhanced depending on your willingness to share.

Having said that...yes. It is lovely and advisable to seek guidance for the endeavors which interest you. But where that might not be possible in the moment, and where you have access to a pen and paper, a tube of paint, your singing voice, some soil and seeds, a crochet hook, a sewing machine, the ingredients for a cheesecake, a power saw, a pair of running shoes...whatever your interest may be: TAKE IT UP.

If a creative endeavor intrigues you, I believe that means something. Perhaps you're interested for a reason. I don't know that the reason needs to be grand, like you're meant to paint the next Sistine Chapel. Maybe it simply brings deep, personal satisfaction. Maybe it resonates with one other person. If it comes from your heart, that is reason enough. It's an expression of your soul, and you will be happier when you begin to explore it.

Yesterday I painted a background for the first time. It was rather unnerving, as I expected to mess up completely. As it happened, I did not mess up completely, I only messed up partially. And in so doing, I learned messing up is part of the process, perhaps even part of the result. You can't abandon your work when something goes wrong...you have to hang in there, you have to keep trying, you have to believe.

Perhaps you'll end up with something you didn't anticipate but quite like, after all.

March 24, 2015

I don't know what to say for myself other than...I simply can't avoid it.

I look at my drawings and try to summon the muses of saffron, crimson, and hyacinth, but I tell you I can no more force my brush to mix those colors than I can move mountains or have a good hair day!

Although this latest venture fails to yield art in under thirty minutes or even on a daily basis (which was the original challenge), I'm still learning a lot about something I barely understand.

For one thing, I'm learning to work harder for a desired shade before beginning to paint...which sounds so obvious as I type this out but believe me, my impatience has pushed me to settle for shades (or combinations of shades) I'm not crazy about, only to realize afterward how much better it would have been to hold out for initial satisfaction.

I'm also learning, regarding water colors, it's better to start with a diluted version of a shade...you can always add depth of color but I haven't yet figured how to take it away.

I've learned I'm the type of artist who likes a little control. I like lines to do what I want them to do. I'm not even sure if it's a question of what *I* like, per se, but more a question of what makes my brain happy.

March 16, 2015

Dear reader, the other day it occurred to me Instagram is adding to the general neglect of this blog, a revelation that gave me pause, as I wonder why I'd willingly allow one more distraction to keep me from getting to this place.

I hope you'll join me over there anyway (account: @ktollipop)--it's fun, a little more interactive, though admittedly lacking in the deep and weighty exposition of thought we've all come to depend upon here at Tollipop!

I haven't given up here, I promise. There are so many things I'd like to discuss! I want to share some thoughts on language, I want to tell you about the little old men I meet out on the trail, I want to talk about prayer, about a growing concern my metabolism is on permanent hiatus, and the inexpressibly delightful reports from friends who've read my story and profess to approve.

Do you ever feel like dancing around the room, dear reader? I'm a pretty low key girl, I wear my emotions on the inside, but when I heard my friends liked my story...it felt like I got up and took quite the spin.

I'm finding such pleasure in my daily art project. It can't last for long because I'll be back working on my manuscript soon, but for months now I've been longing to see color seep across a page and burn into the cones of my eyes (if that's the correct science). I promised myself I'd find an opportunity to draw and suddenly one has come along.

It's teaching me a lot about myself, about my tendency to try to control lines and color when, ironically, I have very little knowledge or control over this pursuit. It's made me wonder to what extent that quality spills into the rest of my life, but let's not trouble my husband for his opinion on the matter!

The artist who inspired me to follow her lead, @augustwren, mentioned everything we do tells us something about ourselves. I'm not entirely comfortable with the extent to which this may be true, though it makes me want to be more careful and at the same time more open, both with art and the entire realm of experience.

I think only good things could come from a greater measure of self acceptance mixed with self awareness in my life. Is there a word for that mixture? Is it love?

Self acceptance is not really the same thing as complacency. But it strikes me a reference point is important in terms of moving forward, that it helps to know where you are in order to know how to get somewhere else. These thoughts, while not especially original, are newer to me in terms of their application. It is not especially easy or natural for me to be open with myself, especially in a gentle way. I tend to doubt it ever will be. But I think of that quote by Thomas Merton and am constrained to acknowledge it has a self application, as well. Loving ourselves without asking if we deserve it, looking at our patterns of behavior with a desire to understand...if change needs to occur, perhaps there is no more powerful draw, no greater motivation than the feelings which come from this inward look, this warm and gentle trust.

April 14, 2013

Dear reader, Louise left a comment on the previous post informing me today marks five years since I started Tollipop.

Thank goodness there are competent people in this world who make note of such things!

I'm so glad she told me. I've been taking a moment to think, to reflect on why I started this blog, how it was conceived as a place to find comfort as I grieved the loss of my mother, how it has been a quiet spot to visit when I'm feeling lonely, how it's been a bit silly at times, how it's provided a moment to linger over the beauty I see around me, how it's given me a way to listen to words and hear how beautiful they sound when they come together as I feel them in my heart.

Your presence has made this experience manifestly more meaningful. Often you leave comments which help me see more clearly what I was trying to say. Often you say such kind things, sometimes motherly, sometimes sisterly, sometimes like a dear friend. You say things which make me smile. You say things which make me laugh. You say things which make me think.

May 22, 2012

Look what I discovered on my trail run today! A shimmering green beetle, perfect in its detail and deathly repose.

There was nothing to do but take it home in my sweaty hand.

If you are familiar with this blog, you may have already noticed my penchant for cherishing lifeless insects, especially the magnificent ones. In fact, if you look carefully at the background of the picture of my herb garden below, there's a speck on the windowsill which is actually a dead bumblebee I couldn't bear to throw away.

Why do these things fill me with such wonder and happiness?

I think it's because something in their design beckons to me. Without wanting to offend or invite the derision of those with differing opinions, I must offer that I see God's hand in this tiny insect.

I believe He created the earth and all things upon it. I don't know how He did it. I suspect it was not by waving a wand within the period of a traditionally defined week, but rather through a gradual and masterful harnessing of universal scientific laws.

I believe this through simple faith. Beyond this, I am compelled to acknowledge an intelligent presence at the origin of creation, as experience has shown me nothing ever gets made without an organizing force behind it. You know? Like, my girls' rooms never get cleaner on their own, to put it in very simple terms. Dinner doesn't just magically happen. As I make things myself, whether it is having babies, composing music, writing, drawing, or building a friendship, I am impressed by the thought, effort, even personality which goes into a really good creation.

This is the heart of the matter as to why the beetle resonates so deeply: there is something about this intricate bug which awakens in me a closer feeling to God. There is something about it which makes me feel I better understand an aspect of His nature, and that somehow He understands an aspect of mine. I recognize something familiar: that we share, if I may say so, a common element of appreciation.

I think He knows how such a tiny, perfect creature would bring me no end of wonder and delight. I actually think that matters to Him. And reflecting on this, sensing it is true, brings greater joy and gratitude to my path on this beautiful earth.

January 16, 2011

How is your weekend coming along? Ours has been very nice, filled with family, friends, and food. Heavy on laughter. Light on housework. In other words: my kind of ratio.

Infused with the presence of this little miss. Just don't tell her she's little.

The weather has been beautiful...sunny with an achingly clear blue sky. Yesterday I drew a girl and when it came time to paint her dress, nothing could stop my brush from dipping itself into that same irresistible shade.

Sometimes I think I should just give in to my strange predilection and paint this girl over and over again, wearing the same blue dress. Why not?

January 10, 2011

It was a party, like all the other parties. Men standing around, pounding each other on the back. Oh, rawther, they exclaimed, Hawhaw, old chap!

Women with creamy shoulders and red lips, baring their teeth at one another in dangerous smiles. Any moment now, one of them would fling her head back and erupt in peals of laughter like a chandelier that has been dropped from the second floor.

Lucy Higgins could not bear the scene, she could hardly abide it! For one terrible moment, she fought the urge to stamp her foot. Yet who had she to blame but herself for letting another perfectly promising evening disappear into the ether?

Perhaps that was the most maddening thing of all.

When it was time for the cake to be served, she felt a bit more composed. Perhaps she would get a piece with a sugar rose on top--this was always something to hope for! As the cake was cut and the pieces placed upon lavender china, Lucy's hand flew to her throat and clutched at her pearls. One could not behold the look of naked longing upon her face without having to turn away.

Finally it was her turn to be served. The piece was crowned with a rose of spun sugar and a tiny hummingbird which hovered in the air! Lucy gasped. In spite of herself, she held out both hands.

Then something unspeakable happened: Blaine Willowby, of the Cork County Willowbys, reached with his stubby fingers and snatched the plate right from beneath her nose!

Lucy stared at the second piece of cake which was placed into her hands. It was plain. No rosebuds. Just a sensible layer of icing which stretched on forever, as far as the eye could see.

It was more than a girl could be asked to endure.

Lucy Higgins shut her eyes. She was breathing heavily and the look of storm clouds gathered upon her face. Blaine Willowby, that stubby-fingered crown jewel of the Cork County Willowbys, was about to reap the whirlwind.

"I beg your pardon," said a voice.

A tall, dark stranger stood before her, holding out a piece of cake. The cake was adorned with a meadow, a brook, and a tree. Beneath the tree was a patchwork quilt and upon the quilt was a perfectly miniature picnic. There was a basket of cherries, a good, crusty bread, several cheeses, a bit of lox, a custard with sprinkles, and a crystal decanter of lemonade.

Lucy took a step closer. Was it her imagination, or did she feel the warmth of the sun upon her face?

"I couldn't help but notice," continued the stranger, "Perhaps you might be happier with my piece of cake...?"

A fox peeped out from a blackberry bush in the meadow. The brook babbled merrily on. A lark dipped and flew overhead.

Lucy Higgins could not know how long she stood gazing upon the scene. But anyone could see, by the look on her face, exactly what it was she wanted.

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Dear reader, happy Monday! Another giveaway and I am in a rush, as Caroline may saw her cello inhalf if I don't hurry downstairs to help her. Please leave a comment and I'll return to announce a winner on Friday!

January 04, 2011

Little Miss Lemondrop surveyed the room with a sniff. The usual boors. There was Cyril, with his odious cigar and penchant for dropping ash on the carpets. There was Forsythe. How many times had she slapped away his despicable, wandering hands?! Heinz and Wilhelm, heirs to the Oppenheim fortune, were off in the corner leering over a buxom Hollywood starlet.

It was not to be borne!

Who devised the particular instrument of torture known as high society?, wondered Little Miss Lemondrop, itching to clobber the culprit with a sturdy whalebone corset.

"Miss Lemondrop, I presume?"

Little Miss Lemondrop spun around and looked into the eyes of a tall, dark stranger. She swallowed hard. Still, she was not to be taken in so easily.

"Yes, you do presume," she replied, looking away as if boredom was her latest accessory, a new strand of pearls.

"Cut it out, my dear," said the stranger, moving closer and speaking in low tones, "I know a game girl when I see one. What if I were to tell you I have a raft tethered to the dock out back and I'm fixing to sail down the river as soon as I find myself a willing partner in crime?"

Little Miss Lemondrop's eyes grew very wide.

"But what about Cyril?," she stammered.

"Who's Cyril?," asked the stranger.

"My fiancé," she said, nodding toward the boorish chap who was, at that moment, guffawing at his own jokes and tapping ash all over kingdom come.

The stranger regarded Cyril for a moment, then turned to gaze into Miss Lemondrop's eyes.

"I don't know how to tell you, but this should be the easiest decision you ever have to make," he said.

And, to be sure, it was.

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Dear reader, I had every intention of hosting a giveaway for the holiday season...but then I opened the door and got trampled by a herd of cousins. And it has been a rodeo around here ever since (just kidding, it has been lovely...a very busy kind of lovely.)

Anyway, what better way to start the new year than to give away Little Miss Lemondrop? She is so spirited and full of adventure. Surely you will find you have heaps in common. Surely the two of you will cook up all kinds of mischief and throw caution to the wind on more than one occasion.

I am giving away the original painting, although I do expect to scan Little Miss Lemondrop and offer a print version in my shop, since I think she is so sweet. And she is wearing that particular shade of blue I can never truly part with.

If you would like to be considered for the contest, simply leave a comment below. I will draw and announce a winner on Friday.

April 07, 2010

A few months after my mom passed away, I found myself hitting a rough patch in the grieving process. I no longer felt relieved her suffering was over. My belief in an afterlife was intact, but I nevertheless felt overcome with profound feelings of missing my mom. My healthy mom. The mom who took such delight in listening to my girls play musical instruments over the phone. The mom who came often to visit, who welcomed us in her home, who was full of interesting ideas and wisdom and advice. The mom who taught many good things through her example, who smelled lovely and familiar, whose presence seemed such a constant in my life that suddenly, out of nowhere, I just couldn't accept any longer she was gone.

After the girls would leave for school in the morning, I wandered around the house like a ghost. Of course I was still busy with the usual demands of life, but these awful feelings of loss weighed down upon me until it seemed I could hardly see my way from one moment to the next.

Then one particularly bad day, a thought came to me. You should make something. It was such a small thought, nearly extinguished by the heaviness of my state of mind. Yet I noticed it almost right away. It was so different from everything else I was feeling. You should make something. The notion felt like a tiny, flickering light, the first one I had seen in ages.

And I suddenly remembered my paints, packed away in a closet at the time of my mom's cancer diagnosis over a tumultuous year ago. Could I find them? What would I draw? I didn't know, but something made me want to go upstairs and unearth those paints.

The paints were found. A spot was cleared. I sat down in front of a blank page feeling anxious yet hopeful. Although drawing has always been something of a constant companion in my life, it's not a medium I would describe myself as approaching with any degree of confidence, certainly nothing I would consciously turn to in a moment of dramatic self expression.

I ended up drawing this little girl reading on a tree stump, with a hedgehog at her side for good measure.

As I mixed the paints and watched that glorious yellow seep into the paper, it was as if the sun itself burst into my mind, warming me, making me feel for the first time things were going to be okay after all.

How odd, given nothing had really changed, that I felt so differently about my situation. Throughout the week I would run upstairs to gaze at my creation and feel warmed again by its radiant yellow glow.

One day I took my painting to a local frame shop.

When I came home later that afternoon, there was a message waiting for me on the machine.

It was the girl from the frame shop, speaking with a shaky voice.

The painting had been ripped, you see. Some sort of horrible accident wherein the plastic sleeve used to protect the original turned out to be unsealed after all.

She was so terribly sorry.

I was speechless. Me, the person who can't stand for anyone to feel badly, who practically apologized to the gentleman who rear-ended my car the other day, who would do almost anything to set someone at ease.

I couldn't say it was okay. I couldn't say a word.

Every feeling of darkness I had left behind in the past few days somehow gaped open, waiting to swallow me again.

It's just that the painting was more than a painting, right?

It took me about another week of drowning in the depths of despair before I finally got a little firm with myself. Surely the first picture was not a complete fluke. Surely I could draw something like it that would kindle those happy feelings again.

The problem was, I did feel it was a fluke. Drawing has always seemed elusive and unpredictable, as if the pencil has a caprice of its own. I wasn't drawing consistently enough to have any confidence in my abilities, so it was easy to conclude the first drawing was the result of some ethereal muse, never to distill itself through my fingers again.

Nonsense.

Creativity isn't some rare elixir to be imbibed by an elite few. It isn't the provenance of a select circle of skinny people wearing black.

Non! (cue foot stamp)

It's for the masses. It's for you and me. All it requires is some good, old-fashioned work (instruction is optimal, too, I'm sure).

Trust me. Whatever you apply yourself to consistently, whatever creative endeavor interests you and you practice often will become your ability, your talent. Something you'll enjoy and possibly be pretty good at.

At any rate, so I ended up drawing the picture again. At the time it seemed incredible I was able to recreate the image and be possibly even happier with it than I was before. This realization opened so many new thoughts to me. One of those thoughts was Etsy, where to this day the little girl reading a book with a hedgehog remains the most popular print in the shop.